


with all these things that i've done

by theinevitablefriend



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Background Essek Thelyss, Gen, Introspection, Light Angst, Mentions of Trent Ikithon, Minor Violence, Post-Episode 77, Self-Hatred, What-If, dunamancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23391112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinevitablefriend/pseuds/theinevitablefriend
Summary: “So, time. When you move through it, from moment to moment, you make choices. Each choice guides the next path of where this timeline will go. But when you make that choice, so many potential timelines are left to decay. So much potential lost to redistribute into the universe.”three timelines, three calebs.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	1. prime, 33

**Author's Note:**

> *staind voice* it's been a while  
> oh wow hello again! it's been Literal Years since i've written fic, let alone posted it anywhere. i've planned out the other two chapters and should have the next one out in a week or so.  
> this is set somewhere during/after episode 77.

The study-slash-laboratory leading to his room is warm, but not uncomfortably so. The fire had been doused around an half an hour ago, the heat from the dimly glowing coals lingering enough to keep him present and in his body. A glance around the room confirms that everything is in order for what he is about to do; nothing is obstructing the door or the desk on which his spellbook sits, and all other potential environmental hazards have been maneuvered out of the way.

The room is silent, save for the occasional crackle and pop of the candles. The rest of the house is quiet too; the group had split for the evening hours ago, and he can only assume everyone else has gone to bed at this point. As far as he knows, it’s just him. 

_ (like old times, ja?  _ he tries to turn the bitterness of the thought in on itself. those were old times.  _ i’m not alone anymore.) _

The small piece of obsidian sits cold and unyielding in his grip, resonating slightly with the arcane energy that buzzes ever-present under his skin. Caleb thinks back to his most recent lesson with Essek and his warnings about the kind of magic he’s about to attempt.

_ “But remember, be careful. Echoes are definitely indicative of Dynasty abilities. It would be very easy for someone within the Empire to question your allegiance...” _

He gives a considering huff. All the more reason for Caleb to practice this spell should he ever require its use in a more...confrontational setting. It’d be just his luck to attempt forbidden magics within the Empire only to have the spell fail on him due to his own lack of preparation. No, Caleb will not put himself or his friends in danger like that.

_(not again, he will not harm his family_ _like that again, but oh that’s a big word-)_

Drawn from those thoughts by the press of the obsidian’s sharp edges against his palm, Caleb looks down to his spellbook to review the necessary verbal, somatic, and material components once more. Everything here is in order as well, the arcane words and hand movements memorized and the spell materials acquired and available. All that’s left to do is put it all together.

After a moment’s pause, he begins to move his arms and recite the incantation, attempting to recreate the quick slashing movement he had seen Essek complete. As the obsidian moves through the air, it leaves a dark line in its wake, and for a moment, nothing happens. He begins to sift through his near-perfect memory for any error. Perhaps he had mispronounced the Undercommon? He doesn’t get very far before an outpouring of curling shadow from the hovering tear in space-time interrupts. What emerges smoke-like and amorphous quickly begins to take shape, until Caleb is staring at a shadowy mirror of himself.

For a minute, it’s all Caleb can do to just stare at--it? Him? For all intents and purposes, it’s an excellent copy, with no major discernible physical difference. While there is no suggestion of color beyond an inky charcoal, the hair appears styled much like his own, loosely tied back so as to remain unobtrusive while casting. The clothes reflect his casual appearance, suited for lounging and rest. It’s hard to make out the finer details without better lighting, but he assumes that the face is as accurate a reflection as the rest of the shadow.

The shadow mimics his stance, back straight and leaning slightly on the back right leg. He notices that it remains stock still, even when Caleb himself shifts his weight and begins to circle around it. Based on appearances, he’s increasingly confident he’s cast the spell correctly, but it never hurts to run tests--after all, that’s the whole point of this exercise. He reaches out telepathically, much like he would to Frumpkin, and tugs gently on what feels like the mental connection between him and the shadow, sending a telepathic command:  _ Go to the door. _

Obediently the shadow begins walking over to the door leading to the training room where it then waits unmoving again. A burst of satisfaction runs through him, the familiar feel of a new spell completed successfully. This is his favorite part of magic: the joy in knowing you made something out of nothing, transformed one thing into another, shaped forces once thought out of your control. He thinks that no matter how old he gets, he will never tire of this feeling.

He remembers Essek’s instructions again: the shadow can cast one spell, after which it dissipates. Caleb decides to hold off on commanding it to release a spell just yet, resuming his slow circle of the dark form.

The spell was described to him as a harnessing of  _ unused potential  _ for the caster’s own purpose, pulling from timelines abandoned by differences in choice. He thinks the significance of that might be too...on the nose, even for him.

Still regarding his arcane shadow, Caleb moves to sit at the desk, and begins thinking about the magical mechanics of the spell. What timeline was this shadow pulled from? Who is--or was, he supposes--this Caleb? Which unmade choice mandated that  _ this  _ Caleb would be the one to decay and not him? He thinks about what other “versions” of him are like, and tries his hardest not to think about the better choices they may have made.

_(well, at least one_ _better choice.)_

Best not to continue that line of thinking. The workings of the spell still intrigue him though, as well as the possible implications they carry. On a more metaphysical level, how does he know this timeline, the one he’s experiencing right now, has not been abandoned? How would he even be able to tell? Does it somehow...he doesn’t know, hurt the other versions of himself to have their potential harnessed? Are there timelines that are stealing  _ his _ potential?

_ (perhaps at one point, but certainly not now. perhaps another caleb did steal it, and that is why you are the sorry thing you are now.) _

Another huff, this time aimed at himself--apparently tonight is a night for melodramatic self-castigation. A snap in the silent room and Frumpkin is by his legs, already wrapping himself around to settle at his feet. He’s well aware of the mistakes of his past. How the...choices that he has made have led him here, although he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this life, the one he’s made with the Mighty Nein. Even if it’s...difficult right now. Even if he was stabbed by someone who he very well could have been in another life  _ (timeline) _ just earlier today. Even if part of their family is missing, being made to do things against her will.

The shadow remains where he left it by the door. Who could this Caleb have been, had he had the chance to make his choices and see them to fruition?

What could his own life be like had the things he’d done and had done to him not happened?

_(that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? what your life_ could _have been like? but you don’t get to know that. you want so badly to be one of these shadow-selves, to have made the right_ _choices. you can never go back, no matter how much you want to, no matter how much time magic you learn. you will always have to live with your decisions.)_

Frumpkin meows as he leaps from his spot on Caleb’s feet up into his lap. His fingers find their way into Frumpkin’s fur, his eyes still trained on the shadow. In all likelihood, the thoughts that creep harsh and unbidden into his mind are right: knowing what he’s learned and studied on the topic, it is probably impossible to...fulfill his goals through magical means, and he cannot conceive of other ways to see them completed beyond the arcane. That doesn’t stop his heart or his conscience from yearning, wishing for a way to make things right.

_ ( _ a voice, softer and gentler than the previous one, pipes up in the back of his mind.  _ there are ways other than magic to right the wrongs you’ve done, caleb. you don’t need to enact these grand plans to redeem yourself, or undo the past, or whatever else you’re calling it this week. maybe “redemption” doesn’t look like what you think it does--maybe it’s more personal. maybe it asks you to examine and change the way you think and treat yourself, before you begin to change the world. at the end of the day, you can only do so much, and only so much can be undone. but what you can always do, what you always have within your power, is make sure that you’re working to make things better for everyone else. you don’t have to like yourself for that. but that does make it easier, and it can only start by forgiving yourself. _

he doesn’t recognize the voice. he thinks it might have been his mother’s.)

He’s getting tired, both physically and of his own bullshit. The shadow maintains its position, as it has for the entirety that Caleb’s been stuck in his own head. He considers it for a final time before deciding what spell to send out through it. Not wanting to destroy his own workspace, he decides on a spell that, despite its simplicity, he’s come to think of as a favorite. For how much the piece of obsidian cost, it feels a bit wasteful, but nothing in his notes suggests the spell consumes it, and no one else is around to see him indulge in this particular sentimentality.

Once again he sends a mental command to the shadow, and the shadow reacts accordingly. Moving its arms in an all too familiar motion, four globules of light appear in the space around it, each shining a different color. The room is filled with a shifting kaleidoscope of pink, green, blue, and orange as the globules spin gently around in the air. He watches the display for the minute that the spell lasts, his mind as quiet as it’s been since he began this endeavor. 

The minute passes, and the lights flicker out. The shadow version of Caleb dispels with them, its one spell expended. It’s interesting: he expects to feel... _ something _ as the shadow disappears, but the only thing he’s feeling right now is mental exhaustion. Maneuvering Frumpkin up and around to his shoulders and neck, Caleb stands and begins tidying his work area. His cat lets out a soft  _ mrow  _ when he accidentally leans too far over at one point; a quick correction of his balance and an offering of scritches has Frumpkin returning to his subtle purring. 

With his desk returned to its proper configuration, he douses the remaining candles in the room and blindly makes his way to his bedroom, preparing for bed. It’s not long before he’s lying in bed with Frumpkin curled against his side, his continued purring a soothing drone. As the dark depths of sleep begin to pull at his eyes, he thinks of potential in all its forms and hopes for a dreamless night.


	2. volstrucker, 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so it turns out a week can very easily turn into two months if you're not careful! who knew.  
> anyway, here's the second installment! i will make no promises regarding the posting of the last chapter, my lesson has been learned lol  
> also, jsyk: this chapter contains a brief scene of violence, with a mention of knives. imo it's p vague but i figured i'd give a heads-up just in case.  
> there is also a discussion that contains the suggestion of abuse by an authority figure, although it's nothing more than what would be found in canon (it's probably less, but i don't want anyone to be surprised).  
> finally, there's some swearing, though again, nothing worse than canon.

The knife just grazes his clavicle, a scratch that burns with the tell-tale sting of a poisoned blade. Too close for Bren’s comfort.

The Kryn operative goes in for another strike. Bren is more prepared this time, raising a hand to grasp the incoming wrist and release a  _ vampiric touch.  _ He figures the Crown might excuse this particular use of necromancy, given the circumstances.

_ (after all we have done, all that  _ i  _ have done for that fucking king...this should be the least of their concern.) _

The spell seems to take effect, the cut across his forehead closing as the figure in front of him is briefly wrapped in the shadows emanating from his hand. They release a grunt of what Bren can only imagine to be frustration as they reassess their chances. Both of them have taken several hits, both physical and magical. Bren doesn’t feel great, especially through his right shoulder and ribs, but the Kryn definitely looks the worse of the two. 

The sounds of approaching footsteps begin to filter in through the narrow alley. It’s most likely Eodwulf responding to the hurried  _ message _ Bren sent him not 30 seconds ago informing him of his and the Kryn’s location. This early in the morning, the sun has not quite broken the horizon, but it’s likely only a matter of minutes before the light breaks over the rooftops of the Mudtop Ward.

He can see the Kryn come to the same realization that their chances are quickly diminishing when they raise their hands to cast some sort of spell. With no strength left for a  _ counterspell _ , Bren calls upon an arcane  _ shield _ to deflect whatever last ditch effort the Kryn is relying on.

Something strange happens. Nothing visibly comes for him, nor does he feel any kind of invisible impact on his summoned  _ shield _ . However, he does watch some kind of shadow-like substance form over and cling to the Kryn’s body, before peeling off it in thick, smoky tendrils. It pools on the ground for a split second before swirling around to a location behind himself. The whole process takes less than six seconds, he figures.

Deciding quickly between turning his back on the Kryn to face whatever’s going on behind him and continuing the assault on the operative in front of him, Bren makes the riskier choice of the two. Spinning on his heel to face the unknown element, he turns to see just what, if anything, has been conjured. After all, the Kryn are known to have strange shadow magics and, well…Bren’s always been too curious for his own good. 

A few things happen in the span of a couple of seconds.

The first is that Bren sees Eodwulf run through the nearby archway and turn sharply into the alley where Bren and the Kryn have been scuffling. The second makes him stop a little, suddenly suspicious that the Kryn is summoning some sort of specter _—_ possibly to frighten and distract him as they make their escape? Immediately in front of Bren now is a dark smoky form coalescing into the shape of something vaguely humanoid, though it exponentially becomes less vague as he looks on. Is it…the Kryn behind him? He doesn’t have time to inspect it thoroughly but it looks similar enough that Bren feels confident it’s meant to be a copy.

Bren barely has enough time to hear Eodwulf’s shout of  _ “Ermendrud, was—”  _ before the third and final thing happens: the shadow Kryn reaches out a hand to Bren’s shoulder, and he doesn’t even have time to think of resisting as the familiar magical drowsiness of a  _ sleep  _ spell overtakes him.

—————————————-

The sweat streaming down into his eye might have stung had his eye not swelled shut a few minutes ago.

Eodwulf says something to him, but he’s still catching his breath, arms braced on his knees in the manor foyer. At the ripe old age of 27, it would appear he’s not as young as he used to be.

_ (you’ve given ten years of your life to this work. how many more do you think you have left to give, before they decide they’ve had their fill? you always were loyal to a fault, especially for those who did not feel the same.)  _

“I said that was close, too close for my liking. Did you hear me, Bren, or did that crick knock out your hearing too?” 

“ _ Ja _ , I heard you. Just taking a moment.” He stands, newly formed bruises over his ribs beginning to smart. “I don’t think I need to tell you I agree.” A hand unconsciously moves to the shallow mark over his collarbone. 

“I still don’t know how they managed to go unnoticed in the Mudtop Ward that long. Two months, at least. This is  _ Rexxentrum. _ ” Eodwulf scoffs in disgust as he moves into the nearest sitting room, heading straight for the small bar area. 

“I think you’ve answered your own question. It’s Rexxentrum, it’s the largest city in the Empire, not to mention the continent.” Bren follows Eodwulf, gingerly lowering himself into one of the couches, unfortunately hyper aware of the aching in his abdomen. He mentally goes through his stock of health potions at his own manor, and frowns to himself when he realizes he has not had a chance to replenish his reserves since his last mission. “And as much as I hate to say it, they were smart about their hiding spot. Even on a good day I think many officials would be hard-pressed to enter the Mudtop of their own volition.”

Another scoff from Eodwulf. “Whatever. Instead of congratulating that crick for their supposed cunning, you should be thinking about your apparent lack of it. How did you let yourself get cornered like that? Moreover, how did you let them  _ get away _ ?” 

In another life, Bren thinks his tone might be something close to concerned, but in this one the annoyed disbelief rings loud and clear. He explains the circumstances leading up to the conflict in the alley: a time-sensitive tip from an informant, a slow stalk across the Mudtop suddenly escalating into a brutal chase that ultimately culminated in that fucking  _ sleep  _ spell.

“The next thing I can recall is your ugly mug leaning over me in the hall.” He pauses, and his next words are noticeably softer. “Thank you for getting me out of there before anyone else could see. It’s embarrassing enough that it happened, I don’t really want to have to explain it to him.” 

Eodwulf makes some kind of face at that, but between Bren’s swollen eye and his almost overwhelming tiredness, he doesn’t have enough mental focus to identify or make sense of it. 

(and he wonders idly _ how long has it been since he has not been able to read wulf’s face and mannerisms like a well-loved book?  _ he doesn’t know how to feel about that, but he knows he’s probably not as upset by it as he should be. not many things greatly upset him anymore.)

At this point Eodwulf has fixed his drink and moved to sit across from him on the couch opposite Bren’s. Upon hearing the last part of Bren’s response, he nods with an understanding previously missing from his side of the conversation.

The questions lull for the moment, Eodwulf nursing his drink and Bren lost in his thoughts. His hand moves back to his collarbone from where he’d dropped it in his lap after taking a seat, drifting over something that could have killed him  _ (had he been slower than he already was) _ . Something has been needling at his mind since he woke up, a prick of curiosity as familiar as the sight of Eodwulf drinking post-fight. Something to do with that spell the Kryn cast right before he went unconscious. 

Bren decides how to begin the conversation so as to not arouse suspicion before breaking the silence. “Wulf, how much did you see? Of the fight between the Kryn and I.”

“I don’t think I caught any of it actually. I rounded the corner as you were falling and the crick was teleporting away.”

“Did you notice anything else about the scene?” Bren pauses briefly. “Anything magical?”

Eodwulf thinks for a moment. “Besides your ass falling asleep, I don't think so, no. Why? Was something else going on before I got there?”

“Of a sort. Shortly before you arrived, the soldier used some sort of magic to summon a...shadow? Some kind of dark matter? I’m not sure what it was made of, but it seemed like it was some kind of copy of the Kryn themselves. Have you heard of anything like this?”

Eodwulf again takes some time to think before responding. “It sounds like one of those Kryn shadows that I’ve heard talk of amongst our more...shall we say, internationally focused colleagues. I’ve never seen or fought one though. How did the Kryn use it?” 

Leave it to Eodwulf to turn a simple line of questioning into a post-battle briefing. “I can’t say for sure, it was summoned behind me. I’m fairly certain it’s what cast the  _ sleep  _ spell on me, though. I didn’t see the Kryn in front of me make any moves to cast anything.”

_ (and yet i still wasn’t completely on my guard, still let myself show weakness-  _ the thought goes unspoken. he’s sure wulf hears it anyway.)

“Hmm. Interesting. I’ll have to ask around the network, see if anyone out in the field has any more details.” He gives Bren the closest thing to a sympathetic smile that Eodwulf has given him in...well, probably years. “For now I wouldn’t think too much about it. We don’t actually think they discovered all that much while they were infiltrating the city﹘I guess a disguise can only get you so far. Probably aren’t... _ skilled,  _ like we are.” Eodwulf’s smile turns wolfish at that. 

“That’s good, I suppose.” Hopefully that will be enough to cover his ass with Ikithon. “It’s just _—_ I don’t know. I’ve never seen magic like that.” 

Bren supposes that’s not entirely true. It’s not that he’s never seen a magic user make a magical duplicate of themselves before. A few times he’s seen some of the more powerful clerics of illegal, trickier gods use such methods during escape attempts after being discovered. But those were perfect copies of their form, as if an identical twin had been summoned; something designed to distract and confuse. The shadow he saw today was made from nothing more than something like solid smoke, smooth in its slide off of the Kryn’s form. There couldn’t have been any intent to deceive or trick; the dark etherealness of the shadow made sure of that. It was almost like an impression of its creator, a shadow imprint of a body left after an explosion. 

Bren has never wished to know more about the Kryns’ use of their secret magics as much as he does in this moment. Sitting on Eodwulf’s couch post-battle, injured and exhausted, he finds himself briefly consumed by jealousy of his brothers and sisters who have been tasked with more research-based pursuits. Fieldwork has its rewards, Bren supposes, but nothing stokes the fire inside like magical discovery, the quest for knowledge. 

_ (but that is not the purpose you were designed for, ja? the job you were made into a tool for, the instrument through which the assembly plays its various symphonies.) _ __

His understanding of dunamancy is greatly limited, although he knows several breakthroughs have been made in the past few years as more and more knowledge has been pulled from their acquired Xhorhasian beacons. Several of which were made, of course, by Astrid herself. 

After all this time, in spite of their...tumultuous history, she is still perhaps the only person who understands him completely  _ (for better or worse) _ . Because of this, she is the only one of his colleagues that he has felt comfortable asking for more information surrounding dunamis.

Of course, she’s declined each time he’s made a request. But Bren’s expectations were never high to begin with. 

What he does know is that it involves the forces of things like gravity, space, and time. He’d conjecture that the magic utilized by the Kryn soldier today most likely has to do with the last of those three properties, though the specifics of it he cannot fathom. He’d overheard Owelia speaking to Astrid one day about her research and caught mention of “timelines” and “possibility” _—_ perhaps this magic pulls from that? He can’t be sure.

While the mechanics of the magic elude him, he wonders what the limitations and strengths of the spell are, what its intended purpose is, who created it...the list goes on. What’s the history behind the magic? Was it created as the result of random experimentation, or was it designed to fill a need, or maybe specifically to assist in battle? And the implications...if the Kryn have prepared all their war mages with this spell, that could mean grave trouble for the Empire forces, assuming they have not already encountered it. Bren’s reasonably sure he would have heard about it if others had seen this spell before, but again...who knows what is being kept from him.

_ (nobody tells you anything, because knowledge is power, and you are not meant to have anything more than what they give you.) _

Either way, Bren figures he’ll have to include it in his report of the encounter. A look out the window to gauge the time: a little earlier than he was expecting, perhaps only two and a half hours after sunrise. He could reasonably spend a few more minutes here with Eodwulf before the expectation of a timely report would grow too great.

It has been over a decade since Bren has had his childhood cat, but his hands ache for Frumpkin’s fur, something with which to ground himself. He considers the frivolity of casting  _ find familiar  _ once he returns, an indulgence he only allows in the privacy of his home, and only when he truly feels desperate. It has been years since he last cast it. But the events of the day have left him in a stupor, one tinged with embarrassment and well-worn anxiety at the  _ (deserved)  _ reprimand he will undoubtedly receive for his earlier carelessness.

_ (fuck it. it may be just another one of my weaknesses, but i miss my fucking cat.) _

He opens his mouth to begin the process of extricating himself when Eodwulf does it for him with a, “Well, that report is not going to write itself. Of course you have my deepest sympathies,” a grin splitting his face at the latter half of his statement. Bren doesn’t need to know how to read Eodwulf’s face anymore to know that the smile is saying  _ I’m glad I’m not you, you poor bastard _ . Bren would be offended, had it not been a grin he had given Eodwulf many times as well.

Standing is only a minor struggle, all things considered. Time blurs together as he goes through the familiar motions of saying goodbye while gathering his things. All post-battle meetings start to play out the same after a time. 

Bren’s almost out the door when Eodwulf catches him with a hand on his left shoulder, avoiding the injury on his other. 

“Listen, before you go...I wouldn’t be too in my head about what happened today. You’ve been doing this long enough, you know that sometimes everything just...falls to shit, for whatever reason.” A moment passes. “He, ah, probably will not share my sentiments but, uh. That’s just Ikithon, you know.” 

_ (and yes, i do, we both do, every single one of us under his hand knows how the highest of expectations can ensure the farthest of falls.) _

Eodwulf removes his hand, giving Bren a short nod that he returns. Bren steps out of the manor and onto the walkway out of the estate. It has been some time since the fight, but not enough to regain the magical strength needed to  _ teleport  _ to his manor. 

He takes a deep breath, wincing at the flex of his ribs, and begins the walk home.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i Did take some liberties re: the mechanics of the echo spell as well as the mechanics of other general dnd stuff here. In This House We Ignore The Fact That Sleep Only Lasts For A Minute.  
> let me know if i missed something that needs tagging. i can be found @dana-sculllys on tumblr! my inbox is open for anything :-)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this far! i'm not quite satisfied with this chapter, but i figured it was more important to just get it out there than spend forever trying to perfect it. if you'd like me to add/update the tags, please let me know, it's very likely i've forgotten something. i'm @dana-sculllys on tumblr.


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